


What Disagreeable Fruit Thy Toil Hath Produced

by kayliemalinza



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gladstone interrupts our two heroes mid-coitus.</p><p>Teaser:<br/>They have finally reached an agreeable configuration. Holmes is as particular in the area as in any other: eschewing the bed and other furniture on a whim; settling himself with his back upon the hearth rug; drawing Watson to him with imperious fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Disagreeable Fruit Thy Toil Hath Produced

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the [Sherlock Holmes kinkmeme on LJ](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/9194.html?thread=21797866#t21797866).
> 
> Prompt: "Gladstone is 'dead'. Again. Well, more like drugged. While Homes & Watson are having sex, the dog steps in and lays down between them and passes out. Watson thinks Gladstone is really dead."

They have finally reached an agreeable configuration. Holmes is as particular in the area as in any other: eschewing the bed and other furniture on a whim; settling himself with his back upon the hearth rug; drawing Watson to him with imperious fingers.

"Be gentle with me," he says, as if he has not left coin-sized bruises all over Watson's hips and shoulders in pursuit of the perfect angle. Even now, his heels dig into Watson's back just inferior to the kidneys and motivate each thrust as skilfully as a jockey may signal a stallion mid-race.

Watson does not complain. Holmes' own climax seems to be a secondary concern most of the time, and he will go for months without anything more than a perfunctory spend. Yet he will attend to Watson's needs with vigor, and his hands are beguiling and efficient whether or not he bothers to undress. 

On rare occasions, however, Holmes becomes more human in his needs, and then (if Watson is not immediately available) passes beyond that to animal intensity. He disclaims his beloved rationality to the point of blindfolding himself with a cravat so that he may not be distracted. Indeed, if such precautions are not taken, it is entirely possible that Holmes may stop Watson in the course of his labors and announce, with some disappointment, that his desire of the flesh has been once more subsumed by his fierce intellect, and a satisfactory conclusion to their efforts is no longer possible. He is exceedingly polite at these moments, careful to assure Watson that he is not at fault. 

Watson suspects that no such assurances will be uttered this night. Gladstone has waddled up to the beast with two backs upon the hearthrug.

"Go away," Watson hisses, attempting to push the dog away without faltering in his attentions to Holmes.

Gladstone emits a single whine and falls over dead. 

"Watson? Why have you stopped?" Holmes bites out, sounding very cross. 

Watson lays his palm upon the dog's stocky breast, softer and more pale than the human torso lying beneath him. One is aquiver with breath and heartbeat; the other is still. "The dog is dead," says Watson.

"Then there is nothing we can do for him now," snaps Holmes. "Back to the task at hand, Watson!" 

"Holmes, even you must allow a moment for—"

"You know how tenuous my grip upon visceral passions can be!" Holmes buries Watson's protest neatly with the strength and volume of his rejoinder. "This is a rare and precarious lull in the feverish workings of my brain."

"Yes, I know that," says Watson with a sigh. "But Holmes—"

Holmes pinches at Watson's ribs, and when that shows little success, twines his fingers into the coarse curls of Watson's chest and yanks. 

"Holmes!" Watson shouts, falling upon his friend with tears prickling his eyes.

"Any further delay and I might—Watson," says Holmes, his voice gone low and quite serious. "Watson, I am most disappointed in you. For once it is not my peculiarity which is the limiting factor."

"Beg pardon?" says Watson. He attempts to reach for Gladstone's corpse again, but Holmes catches his hand in his own, nails digging into his flesh discourteously.

"Your tumescence has faded," Holmes says.

"My dog is _dead!_ " Watson shouts.

At that moment, perhaps disturbed by Watson's bellow, Gladstone's belly rumbles. Shortly thereafter, his rear end expels a delicate _poot_. 

Watson wrenches his hand from Holmes' grasp, but not without consequence; his friend leaves purpling half-crescents in his skin. 

"Thank God," Watson murmurs. Gladstone's ribcage rises and falls satisfactorily beneath his palm.

Holmes expresses his disappointment with a loud, eloquent sigh and finally loosens his legs from Watson's waist.

"He must've eaten something which disagreed with him," Watson says, unable to contain his relief. He prods at Gladstone's mouth; there is some odd material lodged there, and his saliva is a remarkable shade of blue. Drawing himself to his feet, Watson can see a trail of glimmering drops which indicates the route Gladstone must have taken from his office.

"I only desired that we not be disturbed," Holmes says, still sprawled discontentedly upon the hearthrug. "You neglected to walk him today, and I was concerned he may become restive."

Watson closes his eyes and draws in a long breath. "Holmes," he says, using every ounce of his emotional control to keep his voice even. "Are you saying that you drugged the dog for the sake of a mere climax?"

Holmes sniffs. "Is it _you_ who insists that sexual release is so vital!" he cries, then leaps to his feet and exits the room before Watson can reply.


End file.
